


render your heart to me

by thinkatory



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Compulsion, Declarations Of Love, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Forced Orgasm, Jon's addiction to statements, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Possessive Behavior, Rape/Non-con Elements, Requited Love But Not Like This, Spiders, Web Avatar Martin Blackwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:08:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24792109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkatory/pseuds/thinkatory
Summary: It's actually fairly easy to manage. Easier than Martin figured it would be, to be honest. Martin just waits until the middle of the night, when he's sure Jon will be asleep in his office and the Archive empty, and creeps in with the syringe of stolen sedatives. One prick, one plunger depth later, Jon is dead still, breaths shallow, and Martin takes his opportunity to haul Jon to a cab and take him home.Home. Martin's heart swells as he moves Jon onto the bed in his cobwebbed flat. They're home.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 121
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	render your heart to me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prim_the_Amazing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/gifts).



> I feel pretty awful for doing this to Jon, tbh. Imagine what you will about what's going on outside of Martin's flat or what the ultimate Web's plan is or how he gets out of this, I'm just here for the very questionable noncon.
> 
> Title and lyrics at beginning from Portishead's "All Mine." Bit on the nose, but, you know.

_All the stars may shine bright / All the clouds may be white_  
_But when you smile / Ohh how I feel so good_  
_That I can hardly wait / To hold you / Enfold you_  
_Never enough / Render your heart to me_  
\- "All Mine," Portishead

* * *

One longer glance in the mirror shows Martin two things, one more curious than the other: his hair's grown out, but he doesn't hate how it looks, and there are cobwebs tangled in the ends along the sides and at the back of his head. He idly pulls out the cobwebs, rolls them with his fingers, and drops them into the bin to be summarily ignored by anyone who comes inside the loo.

He's never felt as good, as right, as he has in the last month. About twenty-five days ago – Martin's gotten even more attentive to what goes on around him, documenting everything he can in his head, less paranoid than observant – the truth descended on him as he lay in bed, sleepless and half-dozing.

No one can control you if you're the one in control.

It was beautiful. The spiders coursed over his skin, gentle legs making focused pathways across his body, and his fear swept over him like a cold winter breeze before finally dissipating and giving way to a numb satisfaction. Then he felt her there, a warm maternal presence, still cruel, but would he have anything else, has he ever known anything less?

Martin walks the corridors of the Institute with muted confidence now, not enough to catch Peter Lukas's attention, and now understands. It wasn't a dream. It was a visitation.

Finally, someone has welcomed him. The Mother exacts a price, but it's worth it.

He takes a seat at his desk in the stacks and gets to work, in a fine enough mood as he goes, but tilts his head slightly as he recognizes that someone's behind him.

"Jon wants you." It's Melanie. "It didn't seem urgent, though."

"Sure," Martin decides, and toys with the feeling he gets in his gut, rolling it around a bit as he stands and faces Melanie. He offers a tight smile. "Thanks."

"Yeah." Melanie averts her gaze, clearly frustrated, and he frowns as she turns away and leaves. She's difficult, but she deserves better than whatever's got its claws in her right now. He wonders if there's any way to get her onto a better path. A path like his, a path with every cue around you a signpost for what to do and where to go.

As he walks to Jon's office, Martin wonders why anyone would choose the Beholding. The answer is probably that none of them chose the Beholding, and so few of them actually match its aims. They're meant for something, anything, else, the way the Mother dawned on Martin weeks ago.

Martin opens the door, and Jon turns with the usual mild paranoia; upon seeing Martin, he visibly relaxes. "Please. Sit." Half a pause. "And shut the door."

There it is again, that stirring in his chest, but Martin trusts the paths and does as Jon asks, doing his best to keep himself steady and aware as Jon begins to speak. "I need your help," he says, with clearly masked insecurity about having to voice needing anyone for anything. "Something's going on."

"What?" Martin presses, and sits forward. "Jon, is it another ritual, or – "

"No, no, I don't think so," Jon cuts him off with. "I can, it's hard to explain, I can feel that some of the other powers are… they're trying to break their way into the Institute. Not like Prentiss." He pauses. "Through the Archive's people."

Martin's eyebrows shoot up. "You think the people working here are spies?"

"Not exactly," Jon says hastily. "I think the pressure of the Eye is making them weaker to the influence of the other powers. I don't know. Maybe it's just paranoia gone mad. But I feel them, I feel... someone."

Martin frowns, then. "When's the last time you left the Institute, Jon?"

Jon hesitates. "What?" he asks.

"Jon." His tone goes a bit more severe. "Come on. When have you left the Institute in the last month? Two months?"

"I don't have to leave the Institute." Jon looks distinctly uncomfortable now. "You know this is the safest place – "

"Are you frightened?" Martin asks, blunt as he can get, and Jon flinches. "You know what I mean," he blurts out further.

Jon's got his face, posture, tone all under control within a moment. "It would be stupid not to be frightened, Martin."

Martin's tone goes softer. "That doesn't mean you can't leave the Institute."

"I know what you're getting at," Jon snipes, just a little on edge, and exhales. "I'm, I'm sorry."

Martin looks at him for a long moment, beyond fond, and he smiles faintly. "It's fine. I just think... it's time. To give yourself a little break."

"I'll think about it," Jon says, his gaze tight on Martin's face for reasons Martin can only desperately hope he's not imagining. Martin's smile is almost genuine, and Jon goes on, clearly awkward, "But if I'm right – "

"I promise," Martin says, "that I'll be watching for anything off." He pauses. "Yeah?"

Jon nods, then, and glances away, exhaling. "Don't let anyone else know we talked about this," he suggests.

"'Course," Martin agrees, and stands. "I'll... um. See you."

"Right," Jon says immediately, and barely glances up from what he's clearly pretending to be keeping busy with.

Martin withdraws from the office. It's astounding, this incredible feeling, this _knowing_ exactly what needs to happen, that everything is going to turn out exactly as it needs to, for the best for everyone.

* * *

It's actually fairly easy to manage. Easier than Martin figured it would be, to be honest. Martin just waits until the middle of the night, when he's sure Jon will be asleep in his office and the Archive empty, and creeps in with the syringe of stolen sedatives. One prick, one plunger depth later, Jon is dead still, breaths shallow, and Martin takes his opportunity to haul Jon to a cab and take him home.

Home. Martin's heart swells as he moves Jon onto the bed in his cobwebbed flat. They're home.

He rests comfortably next to Jon as he waits for him to wake up. There's something so perfect about being curled up this close to Jon, something he hadn't even dared to dream about before, and he briefly allows himself to think about a nightly ritual of climbing into bed, wrapping his arms around Jon until they both start to drift to sleep, Jon's weight comfortably pressed against his chest. The temptation is too much, and he gives in, slipping his arms around Jon and resting his chin against Jon's shoulder, full to the brim with emotion he can't give into yet.

Within a few moments, Jon is stirring against him, then groggily shifts and looks at Martin, still dazed. "Martin," he starts slowly.

Martin is still Martin enough to shift back, awkward, concerned. "Oh." Then he cuts in before Jon can speak, "You probably have questions."

Jon pushes himself up to sit. "Where are we?" He looks back to Martin, gaze hardening. "What happened? Tell me."

The compulsion rises before Martin can resist, and he says, "You're with me now, Jon."

"What are you talking about," Jon says steadily.

"You're home," Martin says, firm. "You don't have to worry about the Institute anymore."

"Martin," Jon snaps off, intensity flashing in his face, " _tell me what's going on_."

Jon's too powerful, too powerful for Martin when he's not prepared for this onslaught, and Martin blurts out, "I'm going to take care of you now, Jon, you, you don't have to be the Archivist anymore. You can be with me. Isn't that better?"

Jon isn't done. "Who got to you?" he demands.

The compulsion rolls nausea through him, and Martin manages, "I have a Mother now, Jon. One who loves me."

Jon stares at him, and before Martin can open his mouth to explain further, to comfort him, Jon's on top of him, pinning him down to the bed. Martin is turned on in a horrible rush, and his head falls back for a moment. "I'm not letting them take you," Jon says, panic sharp in his voice, and slams his hand across Martin's face as though trying to wake him from sleepwalking. "Wake up, for God's sake!"

"Jon," Martin breathes, overwhelmed, and Jon's expression goes even tighter, more concerned, before Martin gives in and lets the power bleed through his fingertips. Jon doesn't have a chance to react, to assault him further, as the spiders begin to swarm over his skin.

Jon screams, tries to resist and shove them away, but he's curled up into a ball on the bed away from Martin within moments, and Martin just releases a sigh.

"I'm so sorry," he admits, honestly and truly meaning it. "I know this is going to take time to get used to, all right?" Jon twitches next to him, small sounds of discontent breaking from his mouth. "But you'll see this is right for us. I promise."

Martin steadies himself, and tries not to think of Jon's body against his as he pushes himself off of the bed. "I'm going to make dinner," he says, a little exhausted, really. "I bet you're hungry. I'll make something quick."

Jon doesn't answer, still consumed by Martin's companions as Martin leaves for his barely-there kitchen.

* * *

It doesn't take long for Jon to start to fall apart. Mentally he's fine, he's still Jon, but being away from the Institute, away from the Eye, away from his statements, is starting to hurt him. Martin fusses over Jon as he has a liedown on the couch, because he can't resist. "Just relax," he soothes. "I promise it'll pass and you'll get all that Archive shit out of your system."

"Martin," Jon tries to warn, but he closes his eyes tightly. "Jesus Christ. Martin."

"What?" Martin prompts gently. "Can I get something for you?"

Jon's voice is soft. "I need you to let me go."

Martin's chest aches. "I know that feels like the right move right now. I know. But I know we're doing the right thing, having you here with me."

"No." Jon's voice is somehow flat and wounded, now. "You did this to have me."

Martin goes silent for a moment, and strokes his fingers into Jon's hair, shifting where he kneels next to the couch. "It's a gift to both of us," he promises. "You'll see."

There's a silence where Martin just touches his hair gently, then Jon says, painfully quiet, "Please don't make me beg."

"I'll give you anything you want," Martin says, just as soft, "but I can't let you go."

A spider runs across Jon's cheek, and Jon's eyes shut tightly at the contact.

"This isn't you, Martin," Jon says, some horrible pain seeping through his tone, and Martin hurts for him.

"This is me," Martin answers, and breathes out cautiously. "This is me and you. From now on." Jon's mouth sets. Martin shakes his head, and presses a kiss to his forehead, his heart pounding in his chest. "Do you want me to say it?" he asks, gentle.

"Martin." Now Jon's all but begging. "Please. No."

"I love you, Jon," Martin whispers. "I really do."

Jon goes silent, and Martin is frozen where he kneels. He brushes another kiss to Jon's forehead, and quietly rises, hoping desperately that the pain from that look on Jon's face will recede.

This is going to take time. Martin understands that. But this is what the Mother needs him to do, and what she's gifted him with.

* * *

After a week and a half, they've slipped into a kind of mostly silent routine. They eat mere feet apart, with Martin trying to make conversation about news from the world outside and funny social media posts he's seen and Jon making vague sounds of acknowledgment, and Jon drags himself in pure exhaustion to the small bathroom Martin's got to shower every other day. Martin's bought him clothes, something Jon's sniped at him about more than once by now, but Martin knows he's just lashing out from the growing pains of the situation.

There's a horrible sound like a thud from the bathroom as Jon goes to shower one night, and Martin bolts, to find Jon facefirst on the tile, only half-conscious. Martin can't help but panic, and checks him over for injuries. Nothing, thank god, and he pulls Jon into his arms.

"I've got you," Martin promises, his heart racing, and pulls Jon carefully to his feet in order to undress him as cautiously as possible. Just the graze of his fingers against Jon's bare skin, seeing him vulnerable and naked, is enough to completely raze Martin's self-control to the ground, but he swallows his feelings down desperately. Jon needs him right now. For now. That can wait.

He moves Jon into the bathtub once the bath is ready, and begins to run warm water over him, cleaning him with as gentle of movements as he can and massaging shampoo into his hair with excruciating care. The bath is lukewarm once Martin's finished, and he breathes out shakily as he makes the decision to move Jon out of the tub and towel him off.

"Bed," Martin concludes, as desperately, forced cheery as he can manage, and moves Jon into the bedroom and onto the bed. Jon's head drops back, as weary as Martin's ever seen him – that's saying something – and Martin aches more than he ever has in his life for someone.

"No spiders," Jon speaks up, eyes still closed. "All right?"

"I can try," Martin supposes, and moves to lie down next to Jon, his hand against Jon's cheek. "You're all right?"

"As well as can be expected." Jon's voice tightens as he goes on. "I need to go back to the Archive, Martin."

Martin closes his own eyes. "I can't let you do that."

"I don't know what happens if I spend this much time away." Jon sounds more like himself, now, if as exhausted as hell. "I don't know if I'm going to die."

"I'm telling you," Martin says, soft, "if you make the right choice, you might never die."

"I'm not." Jon exhales. "I'm not becoming a part of your Web, Martin. I can't."

"Why not?" Martin runs his hand down Jon's neck, to his chest, toying with his chest hair. "They want you."

"They want the Archivist, not me," Jon says, "and it's part of some game." He barely pauses. "They're using you."

"Of course they're using me," Martin says, and sighs. "And I'm using them. That's how this works."

It's clearly not what Jon wanted to hear. "This isn't right," he tries. "This isn't... this isn't how either of us wanted this." It's as much of an admission as Martin has ever expected to hear, and his heart leaps at it, but Jon goes on. "I think you're going to get yourself hurt."

It's hard not to get nettled. "I don't know why you always think I don't know what I'm doing."

"It's the _Web_ , Martin," Jon says, and his breath comes out unsteady. "It preys on people who think they know what they're doing."

"I know this is the right thing." Martin can't resist the temptation, and grazes a kiss or two down Jon's neck, to his bare shoulder, overwhelmed with affection. "You... you should rest. I'll. I'll be back later."

As he's pulling a blanket over Jon, Jon speaks up. "What would it take? To convince you?"

"I don't know," Martin says honestly, and leaves the room before he can give in to any more temptations.

* * *

Jon tries to escape a few times, when he's not feeling as weak, but Martin was prepared for that, and Jon is honestly too frightened of the spiders that bind him there to make a strong offense or maintain a strong defense against them. Some mix of the controls he's placed into Jon's mind and the company of his spiders combined do the trick. Twice Martin finds him just sitting by the doorway, staring as spiders scurry away and off of his skin, and has to haul Jon gently away back to the couch so they can watch some terrible film on Sky.

Martin finally plucks up the nerve for a proper kiss one night when Jon's nearly resting against him, his fingers cupped around Jon's cheek and the back of his neck to pull him just tight enough to really feel what courses through Martin's body just being this desperately close. Jon doesn't resist, so Martin does it again, beyond moved, happier than he could've imagined.

Jon says nothing after, something intense and terrible in his expression, and Martin pushes the hurt away.

It's a few days later, late at night as they're curled against each other, face to face, in bed, that Martin dares to kiss him again. This time Jon just barely returns the pressure, and Martin nearly makes a sound out of sheer surprise, but he kisses him more fiercely now, so in love, so in love.

Martin's on top of Jon after a few moments of that, his mouth harsh and awkward against Jon's, his hips against Jon's and fingers dragging firmly across his bare skin to take in Jon, Jon, Jon. "Wow," Martin breathes upon breaking away, and shudders, half-hard against Jon already.

"Martin." It's half a warning, half-pleading, and Martin chooses to take away from that what he desperately wants to hear, running his fingers into Jon's hair and kissing him until his mouth and jaw nearly ache. He arches into Jon's thigh, so hard, wanting so much.

"Shit," Martin manages, twisting his head away from the kiss. "Shit, shit, shit."

"What?" Jon asks, desperately worried.

"I need to go." This isn't right. This can't happen. Not yet. Can it? _Shit._ "Jon." Now he's the one pleading. "Jon, please."

"What?" Jon repeats, tone different now, soft, terrified.

He has to know what Martin means, doesn't he? "Jon." He shakes his head, and takes a deep breath before starting to pull down Jon's boxers. Jon tenses all over, and Martin shakes his head again, firmly, before spitting into his hand carefully and starting to work Jon's cock.

"Martin," Jon repeats, panic pouring out of his voice, and his voice chokes out on the next. "Please."

"I know," Martin says, as gentle and patient as he can manage through the desire, and works him harder, keen to get something, anything, that proves that Jon loves him as much as he loves Jon. Jon twists against him and Martin's breaths comes in shaky as he rubs his still-clothed cock against Jon's thigh while still steadily working Jon.

"Don't," Jon manages, but he's starting to get hard anyway, and Martin knew it, he _knew_ it, and without hesitation Martin slips down between his legs and wraps his mouth around Jon's cock. A strangled sound escapes Jon's throat, and Martin focuses on sucking Jon off as dutifully and lovingly as possible, with every small trick he's learned from what little encounters he's had.

Jon is too rigid, Martin notes as he opens his eyes, but there's nothing to do about that; maybe once he comes he'll feel better. More motivation. He loves the feel of Jon's cock in his mouth, savors it, so hard in his own boxers that it hurts. Jon groans, and Martin's breaths quicken even more through his nose, making a sound of his own around Jon's cock.

"No," Jon forces out, but his cock is twitching in Martin's mouth, and Martin _knows._ He smiles around Jon's cock, and works his mouth harder around Jon until Jon gasps, groans again, and thrusts into Martin's mouth to come.

Martin almost doesn't want to move, near ecstatic, but he sits up anyway, wiping his mouth. "Oh, Jon," he says, painfully fond, and Jon just watches him, breath still evening out.

"What now," Jon half-asks, seeming to already know.

"Please," Martin asks, fingertips trailing down Jon's thigh. "Please, Jon."

"This is wrong," Jon whispers.

Martin shakes his head again, again, frustrated. "I'm trying to help you! Why are you – "

"You're trying to help yourself, Martin," Jon says, pained. "I know things have been, they've been hard, but that doesn't mean you have to give into this, these urges – "

"Stop," Martin begs, and surges towards him, pinning him down and kissing him over and over until Jon just barely tilts his mouth into Martin's. Martin yanks his boxers down and scrambles for some lube from the bedside drawer to work around his cock in utter desperation before pressing into Jon's arse. Jon gasps, pressing forward as though to escape, but Martin presses him down and pushes into him as far as he can, slow and firm through the tightness.

"God," Martin chokes out, overwhelmed, and Jon tries to push him back again. "Jon, please – "

It doesn't matter. Martin kisses Jon, focusing on his love, on the love Jon clearly has for him, and fucks him, gently and loving at first, then so incredibly aroused that he can't help but fuck him hard. All at once he can feel Jon's mind against his, and it _bends_ , just enough; he shudders at the instant of weakness and seizes upon it without a second thought. Jon is so tight and firm against him, rocking against his thrusts and digging his fingernails harsh into Martin's arms and shoulder. Martin knows, now, that Jon is right there with him.

He slams hard into Jon, and he feels Jon's cock almost rising again. Not something Martin was expecting, but definitely not unwelcome, and he laughs breathlessly before starting to pull on Jon's cock as he goes.

"God," Jon begs, "please, please, Martin – "

"I know," Martin manages, hearing what he wants to hear, ignoring the pain in Jon's voice, because he just _doesn't understand_ what he wants. He knows what Jon said, he knows Jon loves him, he loves this Martin, the confident one, the –

Jon's cock is getting harder now, and Martin is so turned on he could come any second if he isn't careful. "Fuck," he gasps, and tries to hold back, wanting Jon to come too, wanting this all to happen in some big romantic rush, but he comes anyway, as hard and vivid as he's only experienced in the sharp blast of arousal of wet dreams from his teen years. Martin pulls himself together enough to jerk Jon's cock as firmly as he can, until Jon shudders, clearly overstimulated, stammering out "Martin, please," once and again, before he comes and sinks back a complete mess.

Martin doesn't care that there's come everywhere. He just kisses Jon over and over again. "You'll see," he promises him after, his heart still racing and full. "You'll see, I promise."

Jon's gaze is tight on him, worried, frightened, eyes cloudy with something Martin would recognize in the mirror. But Martin knows that love will win the day.


End file.
